After three morbid hours of travelling from his university to Beacon Hills, Stiles finally arrived home to Papa Stilinski, who was found pacing in front of the Stilinski household in what seemed to be overexcitement. Stiles hadn't been home for about a month, since Thanksgiving, and phone and Skype calls had not done the family justice. As Stiles' blue Jeep pulled into the driveway, the Sheriff stopped pacing, and found himself frozen in place at his doorstep, gawking at his son.
"Glad to see you haven't changed in the few weeks you've been gone," Sheriff Stilinski remarked, as his son hopped out of his Jeep wearing a hideously designed Christmas sweater.
"Nice to see you too, Dad," Stiles replied, scrambling over to his father before pulling him into a bear hug. "What's for dinner?"
"I was thinking take—"
"Dad." Stiles groaned. "You know that stuff does nothing good for you. Is that all you've been eating since I've been gone? I knew I should have gone to community college; I would have fed you healthier foods, and—" As Stiles rambled on about his father's (not-)health choices, the Sheriff couldn't help but grin at the boy. Everything being said was only for his own good; Stiles cared, but of course he cared. This was his father, and he was the only family he had left, for the most part. His friends were always there for him, but—
"Stiles," the Sheriff cut his son off. "I know that you care so much about me and my life span, but let's take this inside before we both die of hypothermia." Stiles cocked his head to the side, apparently coming to the realization that they were, indeed, standing outside in 12-below-degree weather. A layer of snow had begun to accumulate on the ground, and by morning it would probably have reached twelve, maybe thirteen, inches. Perfect holiday weather.
The family moved into the house, Papa Stilinski boiling water in a kettle for something to warm them up with while Stiles danced around the kitchen to fix some dinner up for the night. He ended up making spaghetti—using whole grain pasta, of course—with a sauce made up of all-natural ingredients. The scent was so obnoxiously delightful, and a knock was heard on the door in no time.
"Dad..?" Stiles eyed his father, wondering who might have been at the door.
"Don't look at me," his father responded, raising his hands in defense. "I didn't invite anyone over." Sighing, Stiles walked over to the door and opened it, finding a frozen Derek Hale at his doorstep. The guy was wearing a plain forest green sweater, the only mark being the logo of the brand. The snow that had gathered in his hair made it look like the werewolf had spent his days without shampooing his head, albeit the fact that the snow melted quickly after making contact with the man's coarse, dark hair.
"Uh... Hey, Derek?" Stiles greeted, confused as to what the older man was doing at his home, but also somewhat subtly, because he knew that Derek could hear his breath hitch and pulse race.
"Stiles," Derek replied, scowling a bit. "It's cold."
"Oh. Right." Stiles smacked himself in the forehead. "Right. Yeah, come on in. I just made dinner. I hope you like spaghetti. The sauce is all—" Derek walked into the house, shaking himself off like a dog would after a swim, before nudging Stiles gently on the forearm and giving him a grin. Stiles, suddenly left speechless, just stood in his place and stared into Derek's stunning hazel-green eyes, losing his sense of orientation. He came back to himself when he heard a voice calling him.
"Stiles? Stiles? Stiles!" his father repeated, practically shouting. "Who's at the—oh!"
Derek grinned shyly. "Hello, Mr. Stilinski," he greeted.
"Couldn't wait till Stiles came home, could you?"
"Dad!" Stiles groaned.
"Don't worry," his father continued. "Considering what just happened when he saw you, I'm sure he couldn't wait to come home so that he could see you!" Stiles flushed in embarrassment, eyes darting into every direction possible to avoid making contact with Derek's. Derek shook his head and suppressed a chuckle, knowing perfectly well that Stiles would feel even more uncomfortable with his presence had he gone and laughed at the Sheriff's crude torments. They were meant to be humorous, anyway, so Derek didn't go without the corners of his mouth upturned ever-so-slightly.
As the three men ate their dinner—which was absolutely heavenly—Stiles filled them in on his past month at uni: his roommate, classes, workload, etc. He told stories about the bizarre happenings on campus, events ranging from the embezzlements of fire extinguishers from their fixed glass cases in the halls to the violation of the uni's rules regarding the pool (one of the seventy-four-year-old professors decided to take a swim directly after school, allegedly unknowing that the swim team would be meeting there. He felt asleep floating atop the water, and when the swim team entered the pool area, they thought the old man was dead. Lucky for him, he didn't drown.). Derek and the Sheriff silently sat, amused, as they listened intently to Stiles' prolixity; casting quick smirks and glances at the young man who was simultaneously chattering and gulping down thing strands of tomato-and-spice covered pasta, oblivious to the fact that he was having a virtually one-sided conversation.
Stiles suddenly picked himself off of his chair and headed towards the kitchen sink, where he left his soiled plate and utensils. "Is anyone else done?" he asked. A quick gander at two empty dinner plates on the dining table answered his question, and he walked over to pick up the dirty dishes to wash. He whistled while he worked, a mirthful tune that resembled a Christmas-y song out of a Disney film. He shook his hips all the while, drawing attention to himself. Derek, unable to peel his eyes off of that gorgeously callipygian figure, stifled a groan; the Sheriff rolled his eyes and headed outside before disappearing into the garage.
Several minutes passed and Derek still hadn't looked away off of Stiles' backside, and he was startled when he heard Stiles say, "Derek," with a sly grin on his face. Derek shook his head, licking his lips. He got up and walked over to Stiles, whose heart began to pound in his chest. Even if Derek hadn't had superhuman senses, Stiles' nervousness would easily be perceived. At this point, Derek was less than a foot away from Stiles, their noses practically touching. Derek had the height advantage, but not by much, and it made Stiles even more nervous.
All of a sudden, Stiles found a hand on his shoulder, and he realized that he was being pulled into a hug. Oh, God, Stiles thought. "Derek…" he started aloud.
Derek's eyebrow hitched up. "Yes?"
"You—you're…hugging me…"
"Should I not?"
"What? No! Of course you shouldn't stop! If anything, you should continue! It's just, I, uh…why?"
"Stiles," Derek groaned, burying his face in the shoulder of Stiles.
"Derek," Stiles mimicked.
It was at that moment that the Sheriff came into the kitchen with a large box that covered his line of sight, to the advantages of both Stiles and Derek. The duo separated and watched as the Sheriff peeked at them from behind the box.
"Hey, Dad!" Stiles chirped with a small wave.
"Do I want to know what you two were doing?" he queried.
Defensively, Stiles shouted, "We were—I—I was doing dishes! And Derek came over to help me!" It would always be left up to Stiles to turn a not-awkward situation awkward, and given his reaction, the Sheriff didn't believe a word out of his son's mouth.
"Well, if you two want more quality time with each other, I suggest you put this up. I've got to deal with some paperwork, and I'll help you two later." The older Stilinski man left the large box containing the Christmas tree at the center of the kitchen before retreating back into the garage to bring the ornament and light boxes. Derek and Stiles carried the tree into the Stilinski's living room; Sheriff followed with several boxes.
"These are the last of the ornaments for the tree," he stated while setting the boxes down. "The garlands and excess door wreaths are still in the garage. You probably won't have the patience to decorate the entire house, so just set the tree up—and don't break anything. I'll be back in a few hours." With that, the Sheriff gave a little wave to both Derek and Stiles, before heading up the stairs to grab his paperwork and back downstairs to go to the station.
"So," Stiles said, shuffling his feet.
"So," replied Derek.
"How about we, uh, do…this?" Dammit, Stiles. Stay cool. Stay calm. Stop acting like a complete teenage girl to this gorgeous wolf-of-a-man.
"What?" Derek raised his eyebrows, amused, a grin forming over his face.
"What?"
"Wolf-of-a-man?"
"I said that out loud?! Oh, my…. Oh, my GOD, Derek! I—"
"Stiles! It's fine. Really. Stop worrying about it."
"Derek, I know you probably don't find me as attractive as I find you, I mean, I know you probably don't find me attractive at all. I mean, what am I saying?! I—I—" Stiles was cut off by a gentle force against his face—his lips, in particular. He hadn't even noticed when Derek moved that close to him, and he was definitely in shock when he realized that Derek Hale was, in fact, kissing him. Derek Hale, Alpha werewolf of Beacon Hills, kissing Stiles Stilinski, not-so-ordinarily ordinary human college student. Derek pulled away, smirking, leaving Stiles speechless. The smirk turned into an honest-to-goodness genuine smile, and Derek told Stiles, "Don't worry about it, Stiles."
"You—I—you just—"
"I?"
"You—you know what you just did!"
"What did I do?"
"Derek! Don't do this to me!"
"Stiles! What am I doing to you?"
"You…you kissed me!"
"And…?"
"WHY?!"
"You don't want me to? I won't do—"
"No! No way! That's not what I meant! It's just that I'm me and you're you. You're Derek Hale, for God's sake! You don't find me attractive! You don't even like—"
"Keep telling yourself that," Derek hissed, slight irritation in his voice. "If you really don't think that I do like you, even after what I just did, even after everything we've done, then I don't know what I could possibly do to make you know."
Stiles was speechless, a wave of guilt and negative feelings rushing over him. Deep down, he had felt some sort of connection with Derek. He knew something was there. Now that Derek actually let it become known, Stiles didn't know how to handle it. He was in a daze, and before long, he snapped back to Derek clinging on to his shoulders. "Are you okay?" he asked, with palpable concern.
"I'm fine," replied Stiles. "I'm just a little bit…shocked."
"There is no need be," Derek stated, pulling Stiles closer to him and softly kissing his temple. "Come on, now. Let's get to this tree before your dad comes home."
"But Der—" Stiles whined.
"Nope, sorry. Later," was all the response Stiles needed before hopping onto his feet and pulling the tree out of its box.
The two men hurriedly assembled the tree's base before setting the tree atop it. As neither of the two were paying attention to the task at hand, Stiles went to straighten the tree out at the top, but instead fell over into the tree, which, in turn, fell to the ground, erupting Derek into a fit of laughter. Stiles groaned, but Derek helped him up, still laughing, and the two went to fix the tree once more, slowly, this time. After they built the tree up, the duo set the branches out in an orderly fashion, allowing for the hanging of lights and ornaments. Strands of colored lights were draped all around the tree and connected to a nearby outlet. When this was all finished, Derek and Stiles tore the tape off of the boxes and hung dozens of miniature Santa Claus, snowmen, and animal figures, nutcrackers, snowflakes, and glass balls all over the tree. A few ornaments were broken along the way, but it was okay, because the two were being productive and having fun at the same time (they were listening to Christmas music, getting into the spirit of the holiday, and dancing around with each other to it while singing, even if neither of them had the best singing voice in the world), so cleaning small messes such as those were not a problem.
It took a bit to find the tree-topper, and when they found it, everything was worth it. The topper was a semi-large glass angel that was beautifully crafted and painted. Derek carefully held the topper and climbed up onto a stool to reach the top of the tree, being extremely careful not to knock the entire tree over as Stiles had done before (this time, it would be worse: too many broken ornaments, too much of a mess, another hour wasted). Derek scrambled down next to Stiles, who was beginning to clear the floor of the mess of the abandoned ornament boxes. These boxes were brought back into the garage, and the living room was neat once more; a large tree standing in the corner of the room.
When Derek turned the lights of the tree on, Stiles clapped his hands together and applauded with joy. It was one of the most adorable things Derek had ever seen, and he pulled Stiles close to him onto the couch and snuggled there, watching the lights of the angel at the top of the tree dance across her dress, where they transitioned in her wings.
Stiles' heart rate sped up, so Derek held him tighter. "What's wrong?" he asked.
Stiles shrugged. "I still can't get over the fact that you—we—"
"Stiles, if you're wondering how long—"
"I'm wondering a lot of things, but that's the first—"
"Pretty much ever since I laid eyes on you, as weird as that may sound. I know I was kind of a dick, but I was afraid…"
"Because of…"
"Yeah."
"I'm not like her."
"I know you're not. That's why we're here now." Stiles relaxed then, turning around to face Derek. He leaned in and pressed his forehead against Derek's cheek, stubble rubbing against his pale skin. Derek nudged Stiles, motioning for him to go upstairs; and so they two went up to Stiles' room and into his bed. They lie there in overwhelmingly undisturbed placidity, skin touching, the comfort incredible. Stiles rolled onto his belly, waggling his eyebrows at Derek, who grinned in return and pulled Stiles so close that the only position for Stiles to be in was on top, straddling Derek. He planted a soft kiss on Derek's lips then; these turned into series of kisses, each one getting harder and more aggressive. Derek flipped Stiles onto his back, dominating, and biting Stiles' neck, breezily. Stiles shuddered, and Derek bit down harder, sucking the skin, as he moved around Stiles' skin, leaving a trail of flushed hickeys on the boy's pale skin.
Stiles lifted Derek's shirt, and it was removed, Derek's muscles rippling with every movement, tiny beads of sweat beginning to accrue all along his body. Stiles' shirt was then extracted, and his muscles (less defined, but plenty defined nonetheless) were exposed at once. Stiles dominated again, licking the beads of sweat off of Derek's bare body; he undid Derek's belt and pulled his jeans down, as he shimmied out of his own. The only thing between them and their raging hard-ons was their underwear, and both men quickly discarded their undergarments too.
Derek, on top once more, started to trace Stiles' navel trail that led down to his pubic hair. He quickly snaked down and set his lips tightly around Stiles' cock, sucking gently as Stiles quivered, hands already instinctively tugging on Derek's hair. Keeping a slow and steady pace, Derek's mouth moved up and down Stiles' cock, eventually quickening, speeding up so fast to the point where Stiles shouted, "Derek!" and it was all too late, because Stiles came all over the inside of Derek's mouth, and Derek was sucking every drop of it down and swallowing.
Stiles relaxed, and Derek came up to face Stiles, planting a lazy kiss on his lips, allowing Stiles to taste himself. Stiles was stroking Derek's cock when Derek suddenly tensed.
"Your dad—"
"Oh, shit! Derek, we have to—!" Stiles hopped up, picking up his discarded clothes and tossing them into the dirty laundry basket; he headed into the bathroom to wash up, and in the meantime, his father came into the house. Derek, who had put his clothes back on, was sitting at Stiles' desk chair, pretending to read a book.
"Stiles?" the Sheriff called as he absently stuck his head into his son's room. "Oh. I take it he's in the bathroom?" Derek nodded. "All right, then. Just tell him that you guys did a wonderful job setting the tree up and cleaning up. Derek, you can stay over tonight if you would like. I do know how much you missed my son."
Derek blushed, and then humbly thanked the Sheriff for his offer. He left, and when Stiles came out of the shower, Derek went in, cleansing himself off, and borrowing a pair of Stiles' sleepwear. After changing the sheets, the two climbed into bed, Stiles calmly curled up at Derek's side.
"Derek," he said, yawning.
"Yes?" Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles.
"You know I missed you, right?"
"I missed you, too."
"I mean, I missed you a lot, Derek. I refrained from calling you too often because I didn't want to have to hurt by missing you even more."
"I'm not going anywhere, Stiles."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Goodnight, Derek."
"Goodnight." Derek planted a kiss on Stiles' forehead, bringing his hand up to rustle Stiles' recently grown-out hair. He felt Stiles smile, and the two of them, holding on to each other, fell asleep.